Alphabet Soup
by InSilva
Summary: A collection of short fic. Possibly in alphabetical order but no promises. :) Eighth piece "Holly". As he watched, Shylock marched briskly up the steps of 221 and opened the door then froze on the doorstep and backed up, staring at the wreath. Mr Chatterjee was close enough to see Shylock's mouth twist before he threw the door open and stormed inside.
1. Americans

This is a collection of alphabetical ficlets which may or may not make it past "A". :D

**Americans** by InSilva

Disclaimer: don't own any character in here that you may recognise

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><p>The café was just down from Portland Place, tucked down a side-street set slightly back from the shopping hubbub of Oxford Street. It wasn't the most upmarket of establishments but it was redeemed by the fact that it was within an acceptable radius of both John's practice and the Langham, where, as a favour to the concierge, Marcel, he'd just cleared up the matter of the missing armadillo.<p>

"_Ah, but zank you! You are a genius! With ze broom cupboard and ze marbles…who would 'ave thought? Only you, monsieur!"_

Marcel's words ringing in his ears, he walked the hundred steps or so to the café, ignoring John's voice in his head pointing out that he should have been consulted as to the definition of _"acceptable"_. Then, when the voice continued to grumble, he gave a dramatic inward sigh and pointed out to the voice that it served a most generous all-day breakfast which was one of John's favourites so it could do everyone a favour and just shut up.

The café wasn't busy and he found a table easily, signalling Ida behind the counter who obliged and brought a mug of tea and a plate of biscuits.

"Here you go, dearie," she said, beaming. "So nice to see you again. Give my regards to Martha, won't you?"

He flashed her a careless smile of thanks-acknowledgment-dismissal, his attention already on the home-made chocolate cookies. Dunking one into the tea, he bit into _soft-chewy-sweet_ and scanned the other patrons.

Three labourers _(one of them sickening for the measles) _and a couple of postmen _(father and son)_. An unhappily married sales rep engrossed in a flirtatious business discussion with a pharmacist who had dyed her hair and regretted it. Boring, boring, boring. But the man sitting at the table against the opposite wall...

Attributes and inferences flashed through his head._ Well-dressed, clean-shaven, neat manicure - not a manual worker - married… _Ida brought the man a fresh cup of coffee and the man's smile was warm and reached his eyes. _Charismatic, confident, successful…lawyer? Barrister? Advertising?_

"Thank you."

_American. East Coast accent. Empathic. People person. Politician? _He sat unconsciously straighter as he watched the man's casual but calculated glance to the door, to the window, to the labourers, to the sales rep…_ Observant. Cataloguing. Deducing? _What _was_ he?_ Lawman? Spy? _

His thoughts were interrupted by the look of absolute joy that flooded the man's face. It took him a moment to realise that the joy was expressed only in the way the man's eyes shone brighter and the slight crook of his lips.

(Joy. When had he ever been so certain of identifying _that_ emotion?)

The pharmacist who was facing the door was simply staring, slack-jawed. Off her reaction, the sales rep had twisted round in his seat and was busy scowling at the new arrival.

A glance at the man who had walked in - d_esigner suit, silk shirt, hint of a tattoo on his left hand – Bohemian? - graceful, casual, confident…model? Actor?_ – and he could see the way the man took in everyone and everything and still only had eyes for the American as he took his seat opposite.

_Friendsloversbrothers?_

Ida approached their table and there was light conversation – this man sounded American too - before she disappeared back to the counter giggling girlishly and returned with a pink milkshake and some of the chocolate cookies. His lips pursed slightly. His understanding was that Ida kept those for special customers.

The blond with the tattoo broke off from his biscuit long enough to pull a business card from his inner pocket. It danced through his fingers and into the other's hands and it disappeared from sight at once.

_Magicians? Comfortable with cards… Professional gamblers?_

There was a wisp of something there as if he'd almost caught it and then it had gone. He looked again at the unquantifiable pair. He found their refusal to be classified simultaneously annoying and intriguing. They were leaning forwards in their seats, talking in low voices, demonstrating an uncommon comfortable intimacy that shut out the rest of the world.

_Friendsbrotherslovers?_

Well, that seemed unlikely to be resolved at this distance. In the meantime, there was the question of occupation for both of them which was aggravating in the extreme. He could see the look on Mycroft's face._"Slipping, brother mine?"_ He renewed his efforts. Well-manicured hands so not blue-collar workers and yet none of the professional traits seemed to fit. They weren't accountants, they weren't doctors, they weren't… What did they have in common apart from expensive tailoring?

Confidence. Lots of it. They were confident men. _Confidence_ men. His brow cleared. Hyper-awareness and checking the exits and manual dexterity. It fell into place. Right now, they weren't doing anything illegal but he filed away the thought and made a note to listen to any intelligence about a target worthy of the interest of two successful American con men.

He watched as they got up and left, still engaged in that silent, private conversation and then beckoned Ida over.

"Those gentlemen who just left, Ida…"

"Rusty and Danny? They're friends of my sister's boy, Roman," Ida said fondly.

He only knew one Roman in London. It had to be worth a shot. "Roman Nagel?"

"That's right, dearie. He brought them in to meet me last summer. Rusty really enjoyed the cookies."

Understandable.

"They're staying at the Langham," she volunteered.

"Are they now? Thank you, Ida."

The last three words were automatic. He was already lost in thought.

_Armadillo. Broom cupboard. Marbles. Distraction. Misdirection. In which case, what was the real target…? _

Then the door opened and John appeared.

His lips curved upwards and his eyes shone.

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><p>AN: Danny and Rusty belong to the Ocean's 11 universe. Virtual cookies to anyone who identified them - please state the flavour you'd like. ;)


	2. Billy

Billy by InSilva

Disclaimer: did not create any of these characters.

A/N: a missing scene from "His Last Vow". Hope you enjoy.

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><p>Billy stood stock still and blinked.<p>

"You want me to…"

"Come home with me for Christmas."

"And you want me to…"

"Drug my parents, my brother and John's wife. Knock them out for twenty minutes."

Impossible to keep the impatience out of his voice even if he'd wanted to. He'd said all this once.

Billy nodded slowly. Good. It seemed to have gone in this time.

"His missus is up the duff, though, right?"

"Yes." It had been the one facet that he himself hadn't been comfortable with: administering powerful chemicals to Mary and his family didn't bother him in the slightest. "You'll need to be precise with the dosage. Don't want to-"

"Hurt the little one," Billy finished. He sucked his teeth thoughtfully and then added, "I'll need their measurements. So I can calculate."

"Here." He handed over a list. He'd accessed Mary's health visitor records and had done his best with the difficult equation of Mycroft-exercise+Christmasfood. "There may be a slight variance but these should be within acceptable parameters."

Billy scanned the figures and nodded again.

"A simultaneous experience," Sherlock went on, handing over a bundle of notes for supplies that disappeared like butter on hot toast. "But Mycroft needs to wake up first."

"No problem." Billy tapped the side of his nose. "They don't call me "Billy 'The Wig' Wiggins" for nothing."

"Billy, they wouldn't call you that if you paid them," he said with absolute confidence.

"So…" Billy scratched his face. "So what are you going to do while they're asleep?"

Make sure Mary and John wouldn't have to spend the rest of their lives in thrall. Whatever it took. The _whatever_ resonated all the way deep down inside him and sing-song madness lilted through his head.

_Tut-tut, Sherlock, are you thinking about what I think you're thinking about? I think you are… You _naughty_ boy…_

He slammed the door firmly shut on it.

"On a need to know basis, Billy," he said briskly and as Billy opened his mouth again, he quickly clarified, "you do not need to know."

"Fair enough." Billy gave an accepting shrug. "I'll go and talk to my suppliers."

"Good."

Conversation over, he was turning away when Billy shifted from one foot to the other and suddenly said:

"Is this because I was right the other day about the girl with the raincoat and the rabbit?"

"Chinchilla," he corrected automatically. He frowned. "What?"

"Is it like a reward?"

The frown deepened. Billy seemed like he wanted an answer.

"Yes?" he ventured.

Billy flushed. "I won't let you down, Shezza. Mr Holmes."

A smile flickered on to his face and off again.

"Please don't. It would be devastatingly inconvenient if this doesn't work."

There were so many factors that could lead to disaster; getting this wrong would mean this considered gamble was over before it was begun.

"Have a little faith," Billy counselled. "It'll all be alright."

Or it really, really wouldn't.

* * *

><p><em>Christmas <em>

The parents were nice, the house was nice and Mycroft, the brother who had a bad smell under his nose, was alright. As Christmases went, this wasn't bad at all even with the drive out here which had been mostly full of silence: no one had wanted to play "I spy" and he'd given up in the end and stared out the window at the countryside.

Spiking the glasses of punch was easy: he kept an eye on the clock and timed the hit for 2.10pm as he'd been told. Same with the nice cup of tea for Mary. The brother was sitting down and just sprawled forward on to the table. Mrs Holmes was on her feet and kind of staggered back but he caught her and carefully dropped her down on to a chair. He heard a soft "Well done, Billy" from behind him that was surely not just about catching the old girl and he felt pride wash over him.

After the helicopter had been and gone, he checked on Mary and Mr Holmes Snr and then made himself a cuppa.

"_Enjoy the peace and quiet because all hell will break loose when they wake."_

Yeah. He could imagine. Right now, though, it was all calm and silent like the Christmas carol said. He stood at the kitchen sink, took a big sip of tea and waited for the shouting to start.


	3. Cinema

Cinema by InSilva

Disclaimer: do not own any of these wonderful characters.

A/N: set pre-"The Empty Hearse".

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><p>There was a quirky little cinema not too far from where they lived and every so often they'd have a date night. Eat an early meal and then head to see a film and then fall back into their flat and let the evening continue.<p>

They'd laughed at _"Life of Brian"_ and she'd had to slip John tissues when they'd seen _"A.I."_ and he'd put his arm around her through the scary bits of _"Psycho" _though that was more of a failed attempt to nick her popcorn.

She loved the ordinariness of doing something as simple as going to the cinema. Five years ago, nothing had been simple.

_The job in Rome had gone so very, very wrong and thank any god that would listen that she'd realised in time. _

_One dangerous stop to Alessandro's to hack herself out of the system – _

"_Here, bella, let me." Hands flew over the keyboard, eating their way through records, storing it all on a USB. "Keep this safe. Some day, you might need it. Now ciao, ciao and _go!_" _

_- and then she was running like she'd never run before. No time to double back, no time to settle. Identities flying through her fingers. She was Mette Olsen and Dijana Ljubenovic and Kay West and Mireille Guiot and she didn't sleep and she didn't eat all the way to London and the hastily created Mary Morstan._

"_Just wait. Just wait and she will show herself."_

_She could hear the voice, knowing and certain and there was only one option. To bury herself. No contact with her handler, nothing that would take her into the open, no trace of anything that would connect her to the woman whose life she carried round on a memory stick labelled A.G.R.A. – her sins, her past, _her.

Mary Morstan wasn't looking for love but it found her as surely as any cheesy song. John Watson. Who loved her without reservation. Whose face lit up with that crinkly smile she adored. Whose nightmares, when they came, alternated between wardeathviolence and watching a man throw himself from a roof.

When she could, she woke him up before the dream took proper hold. Before he sat up, sweating, Afghanistan in his head or Sherlock's name on his lips. There were advantages to being a light sleeper.

She loved him. She would protect him. Whatever that took. Every now and then, there was a reminder that that wasn't an empty promise.

Like when they'd been to the cinema to see "_The Long Kiss Goodnight"_ with Geena Davis, as an amnesiac assassin who regained her memory and understood exactly why she could handle a knife.

_She could feel the blade in her hand and the weight was perfect and the man in the tuxedo had less than twenty seconds to live._

Or _"Casino Royale"_ with the pre-credits fight to the death and the conviction that after the first killing, everything got easier.

_Nothing was easier. She walked away from the man who was already dead and hadn't yet had the decency to collapse in the theatre foyer._

Or tonight with _"Avengers Assemble" _when she'd sat and watched Scarlett Johansson and tried not to think about how impractical the leather catsuit would be to operate in; about how pretty the violence was – _where was the dirt and the blood?;_ about how much red was in her own personal ledger.

"You'd make a good Black Widow," John said on the way home and she caught her breath.

Keeping as calm as she could, she half-turned her head and saw nothing but the playful in John's eyes. She breathed again.

"Who would you be? And don't say Hawkeye. You're rubbish at darts."

"I let you win," John protested, opening the door to the flat and standing back to let her go in first. "Anyway. I'd be Dr Bruce Banner. Mild-mannered with a rage-monster inside."

Yeah. She could believe it.

She stepped inside and then she realised he was still stood on the doorstep. She turned and saw that John was wearing that fond little sad smile.

"Sherlock?" she asked softly.

"He would have been Tony Stark."

"Genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist?"

John laughed.

"Genius, anyway. Brilliant and arrogant, all fast-talking and cutting and not caring what the world thinks and God, I miss him."

She put her hand up to his face and he caught it and kissed it.

"Come on." She pulled him into the flat. "Hot drink for Dr Watson."

Whatever it took. Even a cup of cocoa.


	4. Dream

Dream by InSilva

Disclaimer: just playing in the Sherlock playground

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><p>Bart's wasn't her first job. Not by a long way. To support herself in her studies, she'd worked as kennel-maid, chambermaid and for one ill-fated night, barmaid. But making it to Bart's…it was everything she'd been working towards.<p>

Her dad would have been proud. He believed in hard work bringing its own rewards. Not that she'd completely understood that when she'd come down to breakfast in the school summer holidays and found ten sums with _"Best of Luck!"_ written beside them. She'd done them, of course. Just like she'd studied hard to achieve GCSEs and A-levels and to get into the best university and then into medical school. Dad had been there for all that and none of that knowledge she held in her head had been able to stop him succumbing to the cancer that was eating him from the inside out.

It had been a slow death. Slow and painful and he'd faced it with a smile on his face when he'd thought people were looking and such sad regret when he thought they weren't.

_"Try your best, Molly. That's all you can do."_

Try your best. And it had brought her to Bart's.

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><p>The junior doctor who'd been asked to collect her clearly didn't want the job. He strode through the hospital, throwing a word or two over his shoulder as she hurried to keep up.<p>

She arrived breathlessly at Pathology –_ "Here you go. Pilkington's inside." - _and was greeted at the door by a well-dressed man in his sixties who was very obviously on his way out of the department.

"Ah. You're the new girl."

She supposed she was. She smiled and nodded and tried not to notice his surreptitious glance at his watch. There was a grunt that spoke of plans being rearranged.

"My name's Pilkington. Looking forward to working with you, Doctor…?"

There was a definite question-mark at the end of the sentence.

"Hooper. Molly Hooper. And it's _Miss_ Molly Hooper. Can I just say how terrific-"

"Bellamy!"

Pilkington was looking over her shoulder and she half-turned to see another smartly-suited senior member of the hospital staff standing in the corridor alongside a younger man in his late-thirties. Pilkington moved to join them and Molly hesitated and then followed him over.

"Young Stamford, isn't it?" Pilkington asked and without waiting for an answer, added, "this is Miss Molly Harper who's joining my team. Would you do me a favour and show her the lockers?"

"Of course, sir."

Bellamy gave her a brief look up and down. "Unusual choice. Pathology. For a girl, I mean."

She smiled nervously and bit back on the thought that the man was pompous and old-fashioned and just a little bit sexist.

"I like the idea of piecing together the puzzle-" she began but then realised Bellamy hadn't been talking to her and she closed her mouth again.

"I'll see you after lunch, Molly," Pilkington said by way of dismissal. "Head on in and make yourself at home. We'll run through procedures when I get back."

She stood and watched her new boss disappear down the corridor with Bellamy and then there was a polite cough behind her.

"Mike Stamford," the other man said, holding out his hand.

"Molly _Hooper,_" she said with emphasis on her surname. "Nice to meet you."

"Come on, Molly, locker room's this way."

"Thanks," she said, still thinking about her welcome.

Mike must have guessed her thoughts.

"Pilkington's alright," he said with a twinkle in his eye. "I mean he will leave most of the work to you and he'll take credit for the smooth running of the place but he won't stand over you and he'll be happy for you to work out the answers. That's a lot of freedom."

"Do you work in Pathology too?"

"No, I'm one of the lecturers here but I do borrow the lab from time to time," Mike explained, holding the door to the locker room open. "It's quiet and peaceful."

"Morgues are like that."

"Thank God. Don't think any of us would be keen if the corpses started coming back to life. Here's your locker. Have you brought lunch with you? 'Cos if not, there's the main canteen or there are some vending machines next door. Soft drinks, hot drinks, sandwiches, crisps and chocolate. Not all that healthy, I'm afraid."

"Thanks," she said.

Perhaps she looked a little lost because Mike added:

"I've got a class coming up but I'll look in on you on my way back. Make sure you've found everything."

"Thank you," she said again, meaning it.

* * *

><p>She'd opened up the locker which had once belonged to one <em>"Stan Williams"<em> and had found a clean lab coat hanging up. She pinned her identity badge on the front and slipped her arms into it and set off to explore.

It didn't take her long to complete the tour of the morgue and the lab, both of which were devoid of any sentient life. She sat on a stool and exhaled slowly, swinging her feet. She was keen to begin work but she needed Pilkington to at least start her off.

A microscope and a tray of specimens beckoned. There couldn't be anything wrong with just looking, could there?

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><p>So engrossed was she with the magnified blood samples, she didn't notice the door open nor the footsteps nor the stranger until he was right on top of her. She turned her head and found herself looking up into the face of the most handsome man she'd ever seen. She felt the shock smack through her like a physical thrill.<p>

"Eyeballs."

"Wh…what?" Speaking and breathing at the same time was suddenly incredibly difficult.

"I need eyeballs. Six will do. They don't have to match." A frown crossed the perfect brow. "Where's Williams? He said he'd have them ready."

"Stan Williams?"

There was an irritated shrug that suggested first names were unimportant.

"I think I might have replaced him," she volunteered.

Blue-grey-green eyes stared at her unblinkingly for the longest time and then there was the tiniest nod.

"Eyeballs," the man said again. He took up residence on the stool next to her expectantly. "I can't promise to be patient."

Right. From the way this man (_this god) _was acting, he was must be some sort of consultant. Exactly the sort of person she didn't want to mess up in front of on her first day at Bart's.

"I'll just go and find them, sir," she managed and headed to the morgue.

* * *

><p>In one of the cold drawers, there was indeed a jar with random eyeballs just waiting which was kind of a relief. She clutched the jar and tried her best to compose herself. Pretty much impossible, she concluded, as her heart thumped so loudly in her chest that the beautiful man surely had to hear it even though he was sitting in the other room. She straightened her glasses, wishing that she'd worn some lipstick and then took a deep breath and walked back into the lab.<p>

The Man was sitting staring down the microscope. He must have heard her re-enter because he flung out his left hand imperiously for the jar, his eyes never leaving the slides.

"Here you are."

She put the jar into his (_ringless) _hand and there was the briefest of touches and surely he felt the electricity arc between them the way she did. He didn't acknowledge it though. His focus was entirely on the magnified culture.

"It's really interesting, isn't it? The bacillus has mutated into a really aggressive strain. Imagine running into that down a dark alleyway!"

She was gabbling. Talking for the sake of talking and with no response whatsoever and if she didn't shut up now, she was going to do something stupid like ask him out. Ask this ridiculously attractive man out. Or tell him how gorgeous he was. Or ask him out.

There was absolute silence for about fifteen seconds.

"So,-" she began and then the door opened and Mike Stamford walked in.

"Hi," he smiled at her and then glanced across at The Man. "Hello, Sherlock. How's the latest case going?"

The Man had a name. Sherlock. An unusual name and that was so perfect for him because he was definitely not ordinary. He raised his head and looked at Mike.

"Regretfully closer to being solved."

Mike nodded in her direction and Sherlock turned to face her. "Have you met-"

"Miss Molly Hooper," she said quickly, holding out her hand which Sherlock didn't seem to have the slightest inclination to shake. She let it drop to her side. "I'm-"

"New to the Pathology department," Sherlock interrupted, those wonderful eyes on her again, "and new to Bart's too. Keen to make a good impression – shiny shoes, new jacket, a different hairstyle to one you'd usually wear – doesn't suit you-"

Automatically, her fingers went up to the bun that held her hair in strict place.

"-and a receptive attitude to perceived authority. Your badge declares you to be a Specialist Registrar which means you're a qualified doctor but yet you call yourself "Miss" which might be to draw attention to your obvious single status but is more likely to point to your role as a surgeon. Why would a surgeon be spending time here in pathology? Working towards her doctorate. Seeking to differentiate herself from rivals. Understandable. It's a difficult job market and you don't project a memorable persona."

She blinked, the colour rising in her cheeks.

"S-single status?" she stuttered.

"Yes," Sherlock said decisively. "Unless you count the cat."

"I don't have a cat," she protested weakly.

"Only a matter of time." He stood up. "Doubtless, we'll see each other again. I'll need your mobile phone number."

Was that…did he mean…all that about her being single and now asking for…could he mean…

"Well?"

Not patient. OK, not patient. She remembered. She grabbed a piece of paper and a pen and scribbled her name and phone number down and passed it to him with a hand that she refused to let shake.

"Good." The number disappeared into his pocket without a second glance. He held up the jar. "I'll take these. I'll let you know if I need more."

And with that, he was gone in a swirl of coat. She stared after him, her lips forming silent half-words.

"Sorry about that."

She jumped. She'd forgotten Mike was in the room.

"Sherlock isn't the best at social situations and he's worse than usual if he doesn't have a case to get his teeth into. He doesn't mean anything by it. He just sees something and generally it comes out of his mouth. The first time _I_ met him, he told me I needed to listen to what my dentist had said that morning and start flossing as it would keep my breath fresher."

"Keep your breath…"

"Fresher. Yeah. My wife agreed." Mike chuckled to himself. "Don't take offence. Sherlock's worth getting to know."

Well, yes. She thought so. And she hadn't been offended as such. Bewildered, maybe, by the rapid-fire deduction and the bluntness and the _how did he know._

"Surgeon, eh?" Mike sounded impressed.

"Oh. Yes. Orthopaedics. What's-er-what's his specialty?" she asked as casually as she could. "Which department?"

"Oh, he's not on the staff."

Her eyes widened.

"He's not on the staff?" she repeated faintly. "I've just given him a jar of eyeballs and he doesn't work at the hospital?"

"It's OK," Mike said reassuringly. "Sherlock has some sort of arrangement with Pilkington to use the lab and to sometimes borrow a body part or two to help with his research."

She wavered between asking about the research and trying to get to the bottom of the arrangement. Mike obviously sensed the double question.

"Sherlock's a…well…a private detective, I suppose. He works quite closely with Scotland Yard on different cases."

Very different cases. Criminal not medical ones.

"I don't know the details but I understand he helped Pilkington a year or so back. As a result…well, he gets lab time and John Doe eyeballs."

She made a little noise of fascinated acknowledgement and then saw the sympathetic smile on Mike's face.

"I know. Lot to take in. Look, do you want to grab some lunch? I'm headed for the canteen."

She hesitated. She should probably wait at the lab for Pilkington. Mike was still speaking.

"I can tell you more about Mr Sherlock Holmes and I can introduce you around-"

"Yes," she said a little too quickly. "Thank you, yes. Lunch would be good. Great."

* * *

><p>It was later, much later, and she was back home off shift, her shoes kicked off and all the pins pulled out of her hair. She was sitting on the sofa with a cup of tea and a packet of bourbons and she'd just phoned her mum.<p>

_"So how was your first day, Mol?" _her mum had asked and she'd told her.

She'd told her about the journey in on the tube.

She'd told her about Pilkington and the morgue and the lab and about how it had all ended better than it had started because Pilkington had returned and had actually spent time with her and she felt like she'd learned something.

She'd told her about Mike and how at lunch, he'd introduced her to Stacey from Radiography and Ian from Dietetics and Jo from Facilities and they'd all been as friendly as Mike and she'd felt included.

She'd told her that her first day had been good. Great.

She dunked a biscuit into her tea and thought about what she hadn't mentioned. About dark, unruly hair and cheekbones and indescribable eyes and an imperious manner. And about dreams coming true.

* * *

><p>AN: in researching Molly, I came across a post entitled "Meet Miss Molly Hooper" which makes, I think, an excellent case for Molly being a surgeon. So thank you very much to its author.


	5. Esmeralda

Esmeralda by InSilva

Disclaimer: own nothing Sherlocky.

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><p>His friend, Rhys, had started work at an obscure publishing house and asked him to attend the book launch for some scholarly tome. Rhys had promptly disappeared with a petite redhead but he didn't mind so much. He liked people-watching and there was plenty of opportunity for that. Besides. There were snacks.<p>

Standing beside the table of canapés with a glass of pleasantly fizzy wine in his hand, he picked up an interesting-looking cheese and bacon concoction, bit into it and studied the half-empty room, humming quietly to himself.

An intense young woman in spectacles was in deep conversation with an elderly man who kept surreptitiously checking the time on his wristwatch. Over by the window, there were a couple of men in suits who were wrinkling their noses at the wine and were busy tipping it into a convenient pot-plant. And then there were the three girls – women, really – who had just arrived at the other end of the canapé table. Two stick-thin brunettes and a robust blonde who had seized a stick of celery and was busy brandishing it.

"I've told you, Delia, there's absolutely no chance. And don't give me that look, Charlotte." The celery was waved at the brunette on the right. "You know better than to ask."

Delia and Charlotte exchanged a look and walked away. The blonde sighed a heavy sigh and crunched the celery with a despondent air. He couldn't help noticing that from her side profile, she had very pretty features. He edged closer and cleared his throat.

"These are rather good." He pointed at the plate of cheese and bacon nibbles. "If you're looking for something to go with the celery."

She turned her head and there was a startled look at the interruption that melted away at once.

"Hello. Do I know you?"

Her eyes were very, very pale blue. And she was indeed very pretty.

"Not yet." He stretched out his hand. "William Holmes."

She frowned slightly and then shook it. Her handshake was firm and decisive and he liked her for that alone.

"Do you work for the book people?"

"No, no. My friend, Rhys, does. He asked me to come along." The words hesitated on his lips and then he threw caution to the winds and said them anyway. "I'm pleased I did."

It was a gentle little compliment but she didn't appear to understand it. Another reason to like her. She seemed utterly unaware of how gorgeous she was.

"Did your friends press-gang you into coming along too?"

"My friends? Oh, you mean Charlotte and Delia. They're not friends. They're just tiresome PR girls. Pestering the life out of me to go to some other do next week with them. I don't want to. Coming here was bad enough."

She crunched the celery absent-mindedly and then the blue eyes were focused on him.

"Is that too honest? People tell me I'm too honest. Like it's a bad thing."

"It's not a bad thing," he assured her. "Maybe sometimes people don't know how to react."

She nodded to herself as if digesting this thought.

"People might like to know your name though," he prompted gently. "I would at least."

"Esmeralda," she said. "My name's Esmeralda. My parents adored Victor Hugo."

He blinked. "Really?"

"No. It's Margaret Louise. Terribly unadventurous. Wouldn't you rather be called Esmeralda? If you were me, I mean?"

"_You_ like Victor Hugo," he said with a perceptive smile.

She blushed charmingly. "My guilty pleasure. When I'm trying to work out a particular problem, I find it helps to read French prose. Don't tell anyone."

"Your secret's safe with me."

She gave a girlish giggle and as she did so, he had one of those light-bulb moments of his that he could never properly explain.

"M. L. Carter. That's you."

"I know it is," she agreed.

He looked over her shoulder at the copies of the academic work displayed on the table.

"Wow," he said, sincerely impressed.

Her shoulders slumped a little. "You want to go and find someone else to talk to, that's fine."

"What?" He stared at her uncomprehendingly.

"I know chaps don't find this," she waved a vague hand which still held the celery in the direction of her book, "that appealing."

She was very wrong. He took a step closer to her. "Intelligence and good looks? I'd say that was a pretty sexy combination."

She blushed again. "Oh, you are a dreadful man."

"There's no one else I want to talk to. Esmeralda."

Her eyes were dancing now like a gypsy girl in the shadow of Notre-Dame. He wanted her to look like that at him forever.

"Can an author leave her own book launch early?"

"No idea," she said cheerfully. She dropped the half-eaten celery on the table and took his hand in hers. "Let's find out."


	6. Frank

Frank by InSilva

Disclaimer: own nothing Sherlocky.

A/N: belated birthday/17th March present for otherhawk. Happy birthday, mate, and thank you, as always, for everything.

* * *

><p>She caught herself playing with her wedding ring again and made herself stop. She wasn't even sure why she still wore it. Biting her lip, she looked up at the building with trepidation and not a little surprise. It didn't <em>look<em> like the sort of place where she'd find the help she needed but what did she know? Besides. Ida had been very persuasive.

"_He's a miracle worker. Really, he is. You'll be amazed, dearie."_

Amazed. Well, that would be better than tearing a room apart to find your passport and running away in the clothes you stood up in and better than three months of sleepless nights and worry and better than not knowing whom to turn to.

She took a deep breath and pressed the buzzer beside the neatly-written _"S. Holmes". _There was silence and then an irritated "Who is it?".

She cleared her throat. "Martha Hudson." She cleared her throat again and added "Ida sent me. Ida Barlow. Robinson! Ida Robinson," she corrected. "I need your advice about something. I don't know what you charge but I have a little money."

There was another silence and then the door clicked open. "Come on up."

* * *

><p>Marvellous the man may be, but four flights of stairs took some climbing. She took a moment to catch her breath and then knocked on the door.<p>

There was a muffled "Just a moment" and then the door was flung open.

"You could do with some elevators here-" she began and then broke off.

She was confronted with the sight of a ridiculously young man with wild curly hair and a face that looked…haughty. Haughty was the word.

She took a step back, her fingers unconsciously straying to her wedding ring. She must have come to the wrong door. Or she had misunderstood Ida. Or Ida had misunderstood her. Or _some_thing. Because this _boy_ couldn't possibly help her with Frank.

Maybe he sensed a little of what was running through her head because he started talking very, very quickly.

"You've got a problem that's worrying you enough to make you lose sleep. A problem that's brought you across London to see me. You're not sure that this isn't a mistake but your school friend, Ida, has recommended me so you will give me the benefit of the doubt even though you don't feel comfortable telling a stranger about what happened over in America - telling Ida was bad enough. But right now, you need help and the police won't listen and Ida can't help so really, Mrs Martha Hudson, you need to trust me so that I can help make sure your husband never bothers you again."

She blinked hard.

"I deduce better over a cup of tea," he added. "Do come in."

* * *

><p>Somehow, she'd been the one to make the tea and now, bone china cup and saucer in hand, she was perched awkwardly in the chair pushed up against the wall in the tiny apartment. Flat. Studio flat, she told herself.<p>

There had been a rack of test-tubes and laboratory equipment on the side in the tiny kitchen area and she hadn't wanted to inspect the contents too closely. Instead, she surreptitiously studied the furniture which was good quality but worn. The tv was tucked into a corner, surrounded by boxes of books like he hadn't had time to unpack. Perhaps it was just that he hadn't had room to unpack. The bed had been pushed up into the wall – bits of sheet were protruding – and she glanced at it nervously. If it chose to descend, she would be right in its path.

Mr Sherlock Holmes had dropped elegantly into an armchair; he was sipping his tea and watching her. When she caught his eye, he flashed her a smile that died as soon as it was born.

"So tell me."

She told him. Haltingly at first and then the words flowed out of her like they wouldn't stop. She told him about meeting Frank and being swept off her feet and away to the States. She told him about how Frank had encouraged her career as an artiste and about how she had started to help with the "business". About how she'd been proud to help out with the books because she'd always had a good head for figures. And then about how she'd gradually realised where the revenue came from and about how the magic and the euphoria had melted away _"like that painting with the clocks"_.

After that, there wasn't much more to add. Dully, she told him about the drugs and the drink and the time he'd hit her and the girls and the whisper of murder and the police coming for Frank and about how relieved she had been that the nightmare was over.

Except it wasn't.

"_Look after this, babe," Frank had said. "They can't touch me as long as you keep this safe. I'll tie them up in knots and be out in time for Christmas."_

She reached around her neck and pulled out the chain with the key at the end of it.

"I don't know what it's for," she whispered, staring at it, "and I want to turn it in, but…"

"Who threatened you?" Sherlock asked and she flushed, filled with the memory of bad breath and a sharp blade and a particularly hideous checked shirt.

"A man named Colin Brook. Frank worked with him. He said that I'd better stick by Frank or…or…"

She composed herself.

"I came back to London. While I was out of the country, my aunt passed away. She used to run a lodging house in Baker Street and she left it to me. I didn't tell Frank."

She didn't add that he would have made her sell it and she wouldn't have seen a penny of it because she felt sure that by now Sherlock understood that.

"I can't go to the police with the key. They'll think I'm an accessory or something. And without the key, they won't have a case. And once they release Frank, he's going to come after me."

Her lip started to tremble and she bit it to make it stop.

"I don't know what you charge," she said again. "Would two hundred pounds be sufficient?"

"Drink your tea," Sherlock said abruptly.

He stood up and pulled out a cellphone. No, a mobile phone. She'd lived in America too long.

She only heard half of the short conversation and what she did hear, didn't make too much sense. She looked around the flat again and then a cold wash of common sense splashed over her. What was she thinking? This boy had hardly enough money to get by. He couldn't go to Florida to sort this out. Even if he did, the police wouldn't listen to him. He was a child. She must have been mad.

Well, it wasn't his fault. He'd listened to her and he was clever like Ida said and maybe one day, with those skills, he'd be a policeman like the man her cousin in Lichfield had been married to. She glanced over almost fondly at the boy who was arguing calmly and earnestly with someone on the phone, his back to her. Then she stood up and slipped away.

* * *

><p>It was another sleepless night where she'd had to resort to a herbal soother to help her drift off. A little bleary-eyed, she opened the front door of 221 to bring in the paper and Sherlock was standing on the doorstep.<p>

He smiled and handed her the paper and then stepped into the hall, inspecting it as he did so. She saw him glance up towards 221B and the unmistakeable snoring.

"Mr Simmons," she explained unnecessarily. "He's only on a short lease, thank goodness. He takes up the whole set of rooms and there's only one of him. It seems such a waste."

There was a glimpse of something in Sherlock's face – what was that? Longing? She thought about his cramped living conditions. Yes, he would certainly enjoy the space upstairs. She shook herself.

"How did you find me?"

"I could tell you that I traced you through your late aunt but it was a rather more prosaic method."

She glanced at the plate he was holding. Ida.

"I brought cookies," he offered, his voice full of charm.

She sighed. "I'll put the kettle on."

He sat at her little kitchen table, dunking Ida's chocolate chip cookies into a mug of hot, strong tea.

"If you give me the key," he said, in between mouthfuls, "I will make sure that it falls into the right hands and that neither Frank Hudson nor Colin Brook ever troubles you again."

Once again she stood and blinked stupidly at him. "How?"

He scowled at a piece of cookie that decided to fall into the sea of tea and then looked up at her, seemingly reluctant to reveal the magic trick. She held his gaze: she wanted the secrets of this one.

"My brother is by way of being the British Government and British Secret Service and any other form of establishment you care to imagine. It's tiresome but it means that I can open doors I'm not supposed to."

He leaned forward, his eyes on hers. "Trust me."

And she had.

* * *

><p>The paper clippings told her that Frank Hudson was put to death thanks to the evidence found in a locker at a train station in Miami. It was headline news and she felt nothing but relief. There was a smaller article too about a man called Colin Brook who was convicted of extortion and assault.<p>

She folded the paper clippings and stood up and tucked them away in between her cookbooks. Standing at the sink, she smoothed down her apron.

"There'll be no comeback," the tall man in the suit was saying. "Whatever else my little brother may be, he's very thorough. He's still in Florida tying up some loose ends. Or dissecting an alligator. It's hard to tell."

"You're very kind to come and tell me."

The man grimaced. "It had nothing to do with kindness and everything to do with losing a small wager."

Oh.

"Well, in any case, thank you. And I must thank Sherlock."

"If you must." The tall man glanced round her kitchen before smiling a polite goodbye.

Yes, she must. Beginning with the two hundred pounds. And with cookies made to her own recipe. She sniffed. She always scored higher marks in Home Ec than Ida. And perhaps, if Mr Simmons _was _going to depart for Bournemouth shortly like he said he was…well, then perhaps there might be another way too.

Humming to herself, she put on the kettle, full of plans.


	7. Gun

Gun by InSilva

Disclaimer: own nothing of a Sherlock nature.

* * *

><p>He crooked open an eye. Judging by the amount of daylight seeping through the curtains, it was early morning. 5 o'clock-ish maybe.<p>

He wondered briefly what had woken him. Didn't feel like Afghanistan. Didn't feel like anything Sherlock-related not even the dream where the fall from the hospital roof was for real and the miracle never happened.

Mary stirred beside him and then settled back into sleep. He watched her breath rise and fall evenly, her hair feathered on the pillow, her face calm and untroubled by anything dark or dangerous.

She knew nothing about death and killing; about men screaming; about it being a good day if you made it to the canteen without being bombed. She hadn't looked into a pair of crazy eyes like Jim Moriarty's. She hadn't had to make a long distance shot with a gun to save a friend from a serial killer. She sure as hell hadn't been tied up and thrown under a bloody bonfire.

He would never let any of that happen to her. He would keep her safe. He would protect her. He would lay down his life for her. He would…he would…

He thought about his gun carefully stowed away in the wardrobe. He could still remember how he'd felt when he picked it up for the first time – like he was in control, like he had found a missing piece of himself.

"_You alright with this, Doc?" Henderson was grinning. "Shooting stuff, I mean? You're supposed to be saving lives, aren't you?"_

"_Leave him alone," Daley said firmly. "He needs to know what to do, don't he? He might save your life by pulling the trigger."_

"_Yeah, well, a tenner says he can't hit the target."_

"_Twenty quid says he can."_

_As it turned out, he couldn't miss the target. He had natural deadly accuracy. His hand was as steady as when he was stitching up a wound. His control was as excellent as when he had to deal with hysteria and panic in a patient. And, as he'd found out, killing a man who was intent on killing you was not as difficult a moral choice as Henderson seemed to imagine._

No, he had no problems with defending himself or his friends or the woman he loved. He drifted back to sleep amidst half-imagined scenarios where he rescued Mary from various perils. He slept well.

* * *

><p>She felt his body ease back into unconsciousness and listened to the sound of his regular breathing. She'd woken when he had, guiltily aware that for once it had been her own dream that had disturbed them both. It was the one where she hadn't left Rome in time. The one where she'd danced round the Colosseum and the Spanish Steps and Piazza Navona and everywhere she went, there were Santino's men. She hadn't made a noise, not in the dream and not in the waking world, as they closed in on her but she hadn't yet found a way of telling her body not to tense in anticipation of the pain.<p>

Pain. The one thing that she wanted to keep John safe from. And much of that was wrapped up in him finding out about her past but if that past intruded in any way…if she were out shopping and trouble followed her home, if she were caught up in vengeance with John as a target… When he'd gone missing, she'd been convinced that someone had found her out and maybe it wasn't about making her suffer, maybe they'd taken him for leverage - some job that they wanted doing, someone they wanted taking out and she would do it, she absolutely would and then she would kill them for laying a finger on John.

When he'd ended up in that bloody bonfire she'd realised that it wasn't about her. The people she knew were a hundred times more direct. Except…there was one big fat spider that… She thought of the gun carefully stowed under the floorboard beside the bed. She would use it in a heartbeat to defend herself, to protect John… She would…she would…

She took a breath and slowed her heartbeat back to normality. Adrenaline was your friend but it needed to be managed.

She half-opened her eyes and looked out at the day. It was early.


	8. Holly

Holly by InSilva

Disclaimer: do not own anything Sherlocky.

A/N: for otherhawk. Thank you for all things, mate, and happy belated Christmas!

A/N: pre-John.

* * *

><p>Mr Chatterjee leant in the doorway to Speedy's, sipping his cup of tea and enjoying the mild December morning. There was an advantage to owning a little café on a busy London street, he thought. Not just the foot traffic which was reassuringly steady but also the sheer buzz of life. It reminded him fondly of Islamabad where he'd grown up – all full-on and a hundred miles an hour and no inhibitions. Only yesterday, he'd seen a couple argue like the world was about to end and then fall into each other's arms and kiss with similar urgency. Definitely no inhibitions.<p>

He'd never had any of this with his burger van on the Doncaster industrial estate. Yes, he had certainly done the right thing in packing up and moving to the capital even if he had had to do it in the dead of night, creeping out of Elaine's house and driving south like his life depended on it – which to be fair, if Elaine's brothers had caught up with him would have been the case.

He sighed. He was a simple man who just loved women and women loved him back. This was not his fault. He never meant to hurt anyone. Perhaps –_perhaps- _he should be a little more forthright in disclosing previous attachments before embarking on new ones but he never started out to deceive: just that relationships became very complicated very quickly and being economical with the truth was the path of least resistance.

The florist van pulled to a halt just in front of him and roused him from his reverie. He watched with interest as the young woman climbed out. Out of habit, he stood a little taller and straighter but she didn't even glance at him. Instead, she was walking with purpose with a delivery towards the house next door where the lady with the girlish smile lived. Mrs Hudson, she had introduced herself as and a very proper English lady she appeared to be. Mr Chatterjee approved wholeheartedly. In his experience, ladies who conducted themselves respectably in public had an altogether more adventurous approach to their private lives.

Spotting a regular customer walking up the road, he forgot all about good-looking neighbours, his mind moving immediately to matters of a more commercial nature.

* * *

><p>The lunchtime rush swept over Mr Chatterjee and Joey, the confusingly named young woman who helped out for minimum wage. After it had died away, Mr Chatterjee left Joey wiping down tables and headed out for an early evening newspaper. He glanced at 221's front door which now sported a fine holly wreath with glossy green leaves and frosted pinecones. Most festive. He liked Christmas. People were very generous with their tips.<p>

Returning with a Standard tucked under his arm, he could see Mrs Hudson's new lodger coming towards him. That boy – Shylock? – who was always in a hurry and had a permanent sneer. Mr Chatterjee could not say he had warmed to him. On the one occasion that he'd met him face to face, he had not felt comfortable in the slightest. Shylock had looked at him as if he knew all his secrets and then some. The last person to look at him that way had been Sima's father back in Islamabad shortly after the wedding and shortly before he had found the very urgent need to travel to the UK.

As he watched, Shylock marched briskly up the steps of 221 and opened the door then froze on the doorstep and backed up, staring at the wreath. Mr Chatterjee was close enough to see Shylock's mouth twist before he threw the door open and stormed inside. Well, that was…what did the boy have against Christmas? Most wonderful time of the year, no?

Even as he was frowning, Shylock reappeared, pausing only to pull the holly wreath from the door, before hailing a passing taxi-cab.

"Oh, Shylock!" came the wail from 221 and Mrs Hudson emerged on to the street moments after the cab had pulled away, her face flushed.

"Mrs Hudson, are you alright, my dear?"

"It's just that…infuriating…annoying…ooh, I could cheerfully strangle him! What's wrong with a little decoration, I ask you?"

What indeed? He nodded sympathetically.

"Walks in, demanding where things have come from…what does that matter? It's only a bit of greenery."

Exactly. The nod became more sympathetic.

"You should see what I have to put up with in that refrigerator," she finished cryptically.

A sudden vision of dissolving kiwi fruit danced across his mind. He shook himself.

"Perhaps you would like to take a cup of tea with me? I find that tea is most efficacious at such times."

Mrs Hudson drew herself up and turned on her heel and he wondered if he had been too forward. Then she pulled the door to and smiled. "That would be very nice."

He ushered her towards the café, his shoe nudging a stray holly leaf as he did so. He considered it thoughtfully. Perhaps he could pick up a replacement Christmas wreath for her. She would like that. Maybe some mistletoe also. Yes. Maybe she would like that too.

* * *

><p><em>In another part of London…<em>

"You can't go in…Mr Holmes? There's a-"

"He knows." Sherlock pushed past the secretary and into Mycroft's office.

"You will have to excuse me, Martin," Mycroft was on the phone. "I suspect we may lose one another shortly-"

Sherlock pulled the receiver from his brother's fingers and cut off the conversation.

"That was the Home Secretary," Mycroft protested without heat.

"Discussing citizens' rights when it comes to surveillance?" Sherlock dropped the wreath on the desk. He snapped off a pinecone, exposing the tiny wireless camera inside. "Don't bug me, Mycroft."

Mycroft pursed his lips. "Since you won't co-operate by telling me your whereabouts-"

"Well, forgive me for not being micro-chipped-"

"-I have to take measures that will-"

"-or perhaps you prefer an electronic tag around my ankle? That's got to be more accessible-"

"-ensure I am kept informed at all times-"

"-though why stop there? I bet you're dying to just lock me up?"

"Don't tempt me."

They glared at each other.

"Look," Mycroft began, "if you insist on being irresponsible, I must insist on appropriate levels of scrutiny."

"Why?" The word was rapped out. "Why do you demand to know every last detail about what I'm doing?"

"Because I don't particularly want to have to explain to our parents the circumstances of your death."

The words hung in the air between them and then Mycroft added:

"Especially if I have to lie about the details. You know how lying to them brings me out in a rash."

Sherlock exhaled slowly and flopped down into a chair. "We are feeling sentimental. Must be the season."

Mycroft fixed him with the withering look that had stopped working on him twenty years ago. "I mean it, Sherlock. After the latest dalliance with substances-"

"I was bored."

"You know the offer's there-"

"Please!"

"-any time you want to-"

"I am not working for you!"

"Then get a hobby."

"I've got one."

"I don't mean annoying Scotland Yard."

"You want me to grow prize marrows in central London?"

"Or get a flatmate. Someone you can bore to death with how clever you are. I could introduce-"

"No, thanks."

"Sherlock-"

"No, _thanks."_

There was a silence.

"Very well. But I don't want next year to be like this year. I have a country to run and I can do without the worry."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Seriously. Hobby. Flatmate. Consider it, at least."

"No promises," Sherlock sniffed and got to his feet, heading for the door.

Mycroft gave a small sigh and called after him, "Will I see you at home for Christmas?"

Sherlock stopped and stared at him as if he'd suggested they can-can down the Mall together.

"Well, of course. Can't disappoint Mother."

There was just a hint of relief in Mycroft's nod. "Try and keep out of trouble till then, brother dear?"

Sherlock crooked a smile. "Like I said, no promises."


End file.
